It's Personal

It's personal.

This dialogue that I've been having between me and me. It has all taken place in this room I call studio that is encased in the walls of my home.

Four three or four hours the dialogue has been constant, but rarely verbal. I've done most of it with brush and paint on canvas, with occasionally a pencil or bit of cardboard (serving as a scraper for excess paint) thrown into the mix.

Presently, I seem to do well working on five or more canvases at once, all in a state of semi-finish or works in progress. I feel as though I've become mature enough to realize or at least entertain the possibility that none of these canvases might ever be "finished" by my standards. I guess those of you that know me will realize that painting has always been a weak spot-that I am a far more "accomplished" sculptor than painter (all that means is that I hang a lot more sculptures on a wall with titles and prices and call them complete-of course, being the maker of these beauties, if I so desire, I can recall them back into the land of works in progress -such power! That is, until they leave my hands.) and that few paintings have recently left my hand.

Anyhow, in thinking back over the past few hours, I'd like to see the video to examine just how the "conversations" have gone. What has come with ease is the hopping from one canvas to the other and I feel as though I am getting braver in blotting out big areas-in general, see less and less of what I had painted before as precious...this is a big gain for me-if you know this problem -of thinking parts of a canvas sacrosanct and untouchable, then you must know what it's like to have your tail nailed to the floor...anyhow, to some degree, I feel more secure in approaching these paint holders in the way that Picasso made a metaphor-like the Toreador engaging the bull...and no one likes a wimpy fight.

My ideas and influences in going at these paintings are all over the map-maybe that's the way it's sposed to be-I remember being younger and going at a blank canvas with a photo or sheet torn out of a magazine. Not quite how it is for me these days-if I have a visual reference, it won't be used as something to copy, but rather as a jumping off point. Lately I've used photos of other artists' work for this very reason (there-it's out of the bag-I'm a copyist! Just a dumb plagiarist!) Of course, what better place to start off than where you have marked your place in studying art history! From this start, I feel spring-wound in that ideas seem to richochet off the visual and/or off the ideas generated by the same...dunno how this makes for five, six, seven or even eight directions, but it does. at first, things progress in a linear fashion, but soon I find the second painting speaking to issues that the fourth painting has engaged. I'm not going to try and recount my progress or "conversation" through the past few hours, but i think that you get the idea.

Does everyone or no one work this way? It certainly seems to be a far different feeling than when working in 3D....

ps got a "real" job the other day-more details later-at this point, it will add a lot of interest to the mix-so far, I find the whole thing energizing! Don't get jealous, Steve!

This pc is called "Costume Ball at the Eye Institute." I traded it with Justin Robinson at Kentuck last year.

Where I got my start

Trimming them
Trimming all of them

and I haven't a clue
I got no idea

of how to cut this

much less of what I'll encounter
under these cheap straw hats

and these swept up coiffures

there's a call
on the phone outside
the Surfside Store
It's for you

crash it's the ocean
and in the phone booth

time bleeds
listening to
many conversations

all going on at once

you are crawling
you are using up

your last breath

all the world
that belongs to you

all at once

cloudy glass booth
sad old spiderwebs
in the upper reaches

long ago woven
for midnight insects
from summers past

Ariadne confined

a stupid geometry
food for ghosts

looking like a condom

that could fit Mr. Machine

smeary with seaspray

the ocean achieving climax

every minute andahaff

for all eternity

ha ha.

some partner
that rascally shoreline.

Coaxing the dog

I never thought that I'd ever have to coax Delilah to eat her food-I feel like I'm pretty much begging her to eat and in doing so, staving off the inevitable-when your dog doesn't eat, it's curtains-a sign that it is later than you think.
She begs from us almost all the time, but lately she turns up her nose at her regular food-Rhonda, by comparison, is right there scarfing hers right up. The situation, for most of their lives, was usually reversed.
I hand fed Delilah about two or three months ago, when she seemd to start her true decline. It was a pitiful thing and it made me sad beyond most things I have yet experienced in this life. But she ate...I'm about to go downstairs and try that trick again-or maybe some of the chicken I'm making for our dinner tonight will end up in her bowl. At any rate, it's just so hard to beleive that one minute everything goes along so smoothly in it's almost boring way. The next moment everything is new in such a painful way. I guess this is just how we live. And die.

ohne titel

Untitled (8/9/08)

Oh yes
I'm pretty quiet
when push comes to shove
when feet are put to the fire.

This silence speaks
to no one
that has a real name
but only to those
who have names
that are made up.


Untitled (8/12/08)

I must be hungry
this state of being changeable
never seems to release me
from personal obligation

Bowing out once, twice, three times
from the limits set
by your banner of pine
painted in black and white

when they don't get blood
they demand attention

disengagement, please
no IPODS
no noise on the set
no palace of tears
built on the sand
of man made beaches.

Polyphemus
one so loved
by all but me
not only fertile
but horny
leaving the rest of us
to seek
an open heart
a surgery of imagination

I leave the table
with two pearls of wisdom
one says just do it
the other about family
and honor
a medieval code
that translates poorly
in the slosh of mediocrity,
ravioli, foil and fried bits.

When I leave this table
on my own dark mission
migrating like the birds
I take with me
nothing but lint
collected in my pockets
with which to build
new nests
and tentative promises.

Off I go to translate
and then transform into
just who
I might become
this time.


Untitled (8/13/08)

Plum Alley
being the place
I recovered for a week
after my surgery
which removed
all traces
of another self
that had my previous address
a friend to painkillers
but nothing else.



Looking into
naked 60-watt bulbs
to see my own likeness
erasure
metamorphosis
turning who I was
into who I am
gimme a smoke

That's me now
(in case you were wondering)
a personal haze
some kinda genius
with the use of tricks
and mirrors.





Speaking of Backward
(8/20/08)

Thinking backward
was not in my job description
yet it seems to be somethnig
I'm damn good at.
(filed under "Special Abilities")

I start at the end
and carefully work
my way forward
Skillfully avoiding
any real knowledge
I might pick up.


In this manner
I put the cart before the horse
and eggs to fall to the floor
dropped into a basket
that's not there
yet.

Sentences uttered
only for my benefit
others politely pretend
to digest

they really don't understand...
periods before premises
commas before predicates
"! oN, oN, I said
speak more I won't any"

Their frustration
like water,
finds its own
gravity and order.

Back from the Show

The show in Georgia was a dissapointment. S'pose I was setting myself up for that, with all kinds of expectations based on the past years that I've attended the show.

After an unexpected but rather short automotive blip, the trip down was uneventful but somehow not too boring...the time just seemed to fly by. Setting up at the show was, as usual long and tough-this year I got a bigger booth and everything looked better for the fact that there was more "air"-it was easier to look at and to focus on many of the sculptures. I had a full wall gridded with older paintings-that was interesting to look at, even though I only wound up selling one, which was sought after by two different people-obviously the one who bought it and another. Many good comments on the wheeled sculptures (I'll attach a bad photo of "The Needle")-this was somewhat gratifying, but somehow these sculptures (and many if not all of the others) seemed way too polished-or maybe it was just that I was in the midst of so many "rough" styles of working...don't get me wrong, I like the methods-but only when the method is genuine-many of the works at this show are somewhat transparent in that the just don't seem real-they seem like anemic copies of folk art-of copyists going out to make some extra money on what is a "hot" market. Forgive my skepticism, but it seems to follow me wherever I go (if you know me, you know that I am also not immune from my own arrows)...

Anyhow, chalk this one up to what I hope was an "off" year-I will try the show again next year and can only hope that it will be more successful for me.

Delilah seems to be having more problems getting up, but I wonder if this is because she didn't get the same amount of exercise as when I am home...I try and get the two of them out and trotting every day, but this is impossible when I'm not around...Rhonda has been especially close (physically) to me since I've been back-this is not unlike her usual, but has seemed a bit intense in the past day or so.

Rhonda and Delilah

Woke this morning to some short sharp noises which sounded more like a cough then Delilah's bark. But it is all that she is capable of these days...and enough to let me know that there is something wrong in Dogdom.

I found a chair knocked over in the kitchen (the dogs sleep there nowadays, confined since they've had some problems with incontinence)-Delilah, in her attempts to raise herself off the floor, had knocked it over. In doing so, she scared Rhonda badly (I'm reconstructing this because I never actually saw it) and since Rhonda has always had a fear of these chairs (not totally irrational-they are top-heavy and if you hang a coat on one, chances are it'll fall over), she lost it and peed all over the floor.

Since I usually let both dogs out the minute I get up, my concern was now getting Delilah through this mess and outside. I tried to get her up several times , but she just couldn't manage it. I sort of carried and dragged her to the door, avoiding the pee-once outside, she has easier purchase on the ground and can better maneuver...

I'm telling you all this to get it off my mind-I leave for a show today and the two girls will be cared for by my wife. I don't want to leave: the mutts are my responsibility (as I am the one who vowed to see them through thick and thin when I got them). There was a part of me this morning that realized that things are moving all too swiftly towards the inevitable-as in, we can't go on like this, especially in thinking that anyone but myself would take care of, or want to take care of, two aged incontinent dogs. There is love lost in cleaning up dog shit and pee. This is a shocking and horrible revelation, but a truth nonetheless. I'm still able to separate the "mistakes" from how I feel about these two dogs, who have been my almost constant companions -they have seen me through good and bad times and at my best and worst in the studio-my all-knowing critics.

Seeing my dogs go from sparky, happy critters to decrepit, leaky old animals has put a dark cloud over my head lately. I identify with this aging dog scenario-the "no one loves you when you get old" thing. This makes no part of this any easier-there is no spirit of "we are all in this together" when it comes to this. Staying on course with the aging process only gets you to the end-as we all know, when you die, you die alone. Dark words.

Packing

I've always hated packing for trips and for shows-maybe it's because I always think that I'll never have enough of something or that a "vital" bit will get left behind.

There's a part of me, in packing for a show, that wants to put the whole studio on wheels, including all the machinery, tools and shop detritus (those of you who know me will realize that this "detritus" is not insignificant). Obviously, this can't be done. Picking and choosing what goes and what stays is tough and starting the car beofre leaving always gives me that nervous moment as I think about what I might be leaving behind.

The show that I'm about to go to is in Georgia-it's called Folk Fest and it's my favorite show. I usually do well there and the other artists and works in the show, including "classic" folk artists, current artists, oddities, antiques, etc., are always an inspiration-I come back from this show filled with ideas-anxious to get back into the studio and work like a fiend.

It was at another Folk Art show (Kentuck) that my "neighbor" suggested this show to me. Natural skeptic that I am, I paid him lip service and said that I'd apply. You had to be represented by a gallery to be in the show and my neighbor generously offered me representation in his "gallery." He had no such gallery-just the two of us showing our respective art made up the gallery. To make a long story longer, I showed with him at the show next year and did really well. Besides the financial boost, I felt truly at home at this show-talking with so many of the other artists there and seeing their work filled me with all kinds of energy: I hadn't experienced anything quite like it before.

In the past few years, though, it seems as though my friend who got me started at Folk Fest has been having increasingly bad shows. Whether this is fate, bad luck or whatever, I don't know. I know him only through the show circuit and now I worry that he has dropped out of the running-either to reevaluate his work or to just give up. I don't really know because he doesn't return my phone calls. I worry about him-putting myself in the same situation seems too dark to contemplate.

We all go through bad periods. As artists, we can only be so elastic and durable on our own-after a while, we have to acknowledge that public opinion of our efforts counts. Making art in a closet means making things that don't really exist- until the closet door is opened. At shows, besides actual sales, we have only the random kudos (or jeers that we happen to overhear) about our work to fuel us-to tell us what we might be doing right...or wrong. This makes for a tough go of things when working alone-it's as if we create our own language and talk to ourselves in that created language-just a bit insular, wouldn't you say?

That obvious part being said, I have to be grateful that artwork, being visual, doesn't ask an audience to put in TOO much effort, like a stage actor or a poet (who needs a group of people to sit for a length of time while he or she does their thing). At a glance, passersby know whether they like my work or not-if I'm really lucky, I get feedback-good or bad, it's valuable stuff. Occasionally, some one will stop and actually want to talk about my work-I mean, really talk. Pure gold.

But there is absolutely no one there when you feel as though you are falling-that what you do, the very fabric and language of what you have created, is just no good, not appreciated, not valuable. The only advice I have is to get back on that horse and ride (I'm also a big proponent of changing horses, if only for a time-this has certainly helped me through some doubtful periods)-but I know just how hollow that advice can ring for someone facing the void. The trick is to know when to change the channel before things get too damn dark.

Here's another little metaphor: Tying your shoelaces together will surely cause you to trip, but untie those laces and you might just make it.

This one is called "Royally Yours."

These Days

The following are the lyrics from the Jackson Browne song, "These Days." Recently hearing it again (it's been covered by many singers, famous and not so) done by Nico of the Velvet Underground, I was impressed to hear that she was the first to record it. Nico. I considered her a goddess when I was a kid, with all that blonde hair and Germaness...in later years, when I saw her perform at the Mudd Club, almost all the mystique had flown away.
At any rate, this song expresses a lot for me lately and how I feel about some of my life. I've come to some point of reflection that has me looking into a darker mirror. I think that it's a brilliant if somewhat sad song. Jackson Browne is quite the writer and singer. A few years back, I bought a Christmas album in which he sang his song, "The Rebel Jesus." Besides the fact that Burgess Meredith read poetry and Elvis Costello sang one of his songs, Browne absolutely knocks you out with his contribution to the collection.

These Days

Well I’ve been out walking
I don’t do that much talking these days
These days--
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
For you
And all the times I had the chance to

And I had a lover
It’s so hard to risk another these days
These days--
Now if I seem to be afraid
To live the life I have made in song
Well it’s just that I’ve been losing so long
I’ll keep on moving
Things are bound to be improving these days
These days--
These days I sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don’t confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them

Migrants

While checking to see how my Walking Stick was doing in terms of being eaten by Japanese beetles, I realized the ground just below the tree was a network of holes, much like if you had sprayed it with bullets. The holes are each about a half-inch round, with mounds of dirt right in front of them, much like a critter scooping out the soli would make.
A few minutes more and the wasp population became apparent-dunno know if these guys sting, but I gave them the benefit of the doubt and kept a distance away. As it turns out, these are giant Cicada Killers, with flecks of yellow and orange. From what the book says, they disable or kill two Cicadas for each nest-back to back-and lay eggs close to the last one.
While I was watching, one of the wasps brought a small katydid to the nest-these insects move so slow that I couldn't figure out if it was partially paralyzed or just didn't run, but it waited calmly for the wasp to bring it into the nest, where it would be eaten. Coincidence or not, just yesterday, I removed a big Katydid from the van-they really do move slowly-it was seemingly reluctant to leave my side and crawled up my arm before I managed to dislodge it. Last night there was another of these big insects on the screen-they are a little strange looking and moving-fun to watch. I guess that these "hatches" are complimentary-the hunted and the hunter.
But wait, there's more! It must be big insect week-found a two and a half inch Dobsonfly (their larvae are called Hellgrammites) on the back door-beautiful antennae with an overall grey appearance-this camouflage would be perfect except for the fact that this guy sat on the edge of my white screen door.
Although I tried, I couldn't upload images of these insects to this blog, so you'll have to take my word for it:all the aforementioned are big and beautiful critters!